Day Full Of Grace

My Grandpa died last night.

As of five days ago, we knew it would happen at any moment. A caregiver from the assisted living facility he has been residing in for the past 3 months called my Grandma on Monday night to suggest that she come and say her goodbyes. She and my Mom kept vigil at Grandpa's bedside, and night turned to day. My sister Karen flew home, and so did my aunt and uncle from Seattle. Another 24 hours passed, as did another. Grandpa's room and the lobby outside of it became a meeting place for family, a modified living room where we flipped through pictures and old church bulletins. So there was nothing special about Thursday night when Karen and I went for a visit, Oliver in tow. We expected to stop in, look at some pictures, give Grandpa yet another kiss goodbye and head home.

His breathing was regular and overall he looked unchanged from the day before; but in retrospect, we saw some signs that this night would be different. As I drove to Sunrise assisted living, I looked up at the sky to see search lights. No doubt they were for some two-day sale at Macy's or something, but my over-analyzing, over-poetic self watched the lights travel all the way up to the heavens. And I had a sudden, very sure feeling that tonight was the night that Grandpa would go Home. It seems as though I wasn't the only one to have a gut feeling about that night. Enter Romeo, the resident cat at Sunrise. We had been told that the place had a cat; we saw the litter box, but nobody had ever met him. Until we walked down the hallway of the third floor and found him sitting vigil at Grandpa's door. The cat wouldn't leave his post, sitting like a furry gargoyle on guard. Romeo stayed and stayed, until Grandpa died. And then he left his post.

Before Grandpa died, Oliver and I had walked into his room and sat down at his bedside. His face was bony, with sunken-in cheeks. His eyes were open but vacant, and his mouth hung open. After telling him who was sitting by his side, I wept. It occurred to me that perhaps when people take their time to die, the shocking changes in their appearance might help us to let go a little easier. This most certainly did not look like my Grandpa. It was time for him to go. "Grandpa, we're going to say a prayer," I said, my hand on his arm. My Grandpa was a Lutheran minister, and I had heard him countless times pray with fervor and reverence over our meals and church services. Now it was my turn. I had asked God for comfort and peace for Grandpa as he packed his bags for heaven. As I prayed, I noticed the St. Olaf choir CD that was playing. "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," my favorite hymn and one of our wedding songs, was lifting me up. There is no shadow of turning with Thee. All I have needed Thy hand hath provided; Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.

I walked back out into that modified living room of a lobby with eyes a little redder. My uncle walked in the room a few minutes later, then stepped out and said in an urgent tone, "I think you guys better come in here." Grandpa had just taken in a big gasp of air, he had said.

We all walked into the room with silent urgency. My Mom and Grandma felt for a while for a breath or a heartbeat, and didn't find any. Grandma reached for the hand of her husband of 61 years and simply said, "the struggle is over." We all found places to sit in the arms of loved ones, Oliver in mine. Grandma reached to turn up the volume on the CD player. "O Day Full of Grace," she announced. "This is his favorite." O day full of grace indeed. Beautiful Savior rang out next. "We sang this every day," Grandma said. "Every day." And then she sang, sang out with such richness and love, to her husband and to her Lord. We all joined in between sobs and silent tears. Truly I'd love thee, truly I'd serve thee...now and forever more be thine... I have never known anyone to have lived out these words any fuller than my grandparents.

My grandfather had served for sevreal years at Church of the Master in Edina, and this is where he ended up retiring. Years later, a sad transition caused the church building to be demolished to put up an assisted living facility. Sunrise. The very place where he moved to three months ago when he needed more help; the very place where we were now gathered to witness his passing. I pointed out to my family that being on the third floor, Grandpa's spirit was very likely surrendered somewhere in the rafters, just above the stained glass windows. What an image.

Michael arrived, walking down the hall with my Dad, who is a Lutheran pastor. He brought communion for all of us, and Michael assisted. I couldn't help but notice the profound links of faith in that room. Grandpa had married my parents; he married my aunt and uncle, at the church that once stood where we were; and he co-officiated with my dad at Karen and Karl's wedding. My dad married me and Michael; he baptized Michael the year before; and two years later he baptized Oliver. In light of the rich history of faith in our family, and the fact that Grandpa had offered communion to us so many times before in church, it was decided that we would commune over Grandpa. Michael and my Dad stood on one side of the bed, and we all came up to stand on the other side, reaching across to receive the wine and bread.

We continued the grieving and the celebration with more singing. At one point, stepping outside of the room to change Oliver into pajamas, I listened as my family sang out. The harmonies swelled, spilling out into the hallway. A grieving little choir with big faith. Great, great, great, is Thy faithfulness. Amen.